by Liz Carlyle
As with most of their games, Helene was the instigator, but Cam was usually the winner. As the years went by, however, she and Cam were more apt to simply fritter away an afternoon hiding amidst the branches, sharing secrets, and wondering if they would ever be missed by the hapless servant who had been assigned the marginal task of lending countenance to their odd situation.
And once, on a glorious summer day in this very orchard, Helene had accidentally slipped as she climbed down from her leafy perch, only to land, shrieking with terror, in Cam’s outstretched arms. The force of the impact had sent them both tumbling into the warm orchard grass, where they had landed in a foaming heap of India muslin and white lace.
The memory was indelibly burnt into Helene’s consciousness, though the air had been knocked from her chest. Oh, yes. She remembered Cam hovering anxiously above her, his long legs entangled in her skirts, his face pale and sick with fright. Cam, brushing the snarls of hair from her forehead, and desperately pleading with her to say something, to breathe, or to scream, anything ... until at last, Helene’s wind had returned and she had sucked in a ragged, tremulous breath.
Cam’s bloodless visage had slowly regained its color then, and ultimately had turned a little red, when he realized just where his hands were. But still a little frightened, and invariably foolish where Cam was concerned, Helene had let herself cling to him, and slowly, almost against his will, Cam’s mouth had come down on hers. His arms had trembled, his long, black lashes had dropped shyly closed, and despite their inexperience, they had kissed as if they had been lovers for a lifetime.
Still stretched out along her length, Cam had kissed her long and hard, cradling the back of her head in a hand which even then was broad and strong from hard work. Helene would never forget how wantonly she had arched up to meet him; how Cam had then stroked his fingertips through the hair at her temple as he slid his warm, full lips away from her mouth to kiss her cheek, and her brow, and finally, the corner of her eye.
All the while, Cam’s nostrils had flared with urgency, drawing deep, desperate breaths of air, as if he might suffocate from need. As if he could not get enough of her. And even at that young age, as she’d lain in the grass beneath that apple tree, Helene had known with a certainty that she was in love.
With a foolish desperation, she had responded by drawing Cam’s mouth back to hers, and sliding her tongue across his lower lip, just as she had once seen her mother do to Randolph, when the pair of them were both a little drunk, and convinced no one was watching.
To her shock, Cam had groaned as if in pain, and then had driven his tongue into the depths of her mouth to possess her with a wild, heated intimacy. Over and over, he had thrust into her as she foolishly urged him closer and closer, until he lay full on top of her. Helene remembered with exquisite agony the strange warmth that flooded her stomach, then languidly slid lower, until she felt the embarrassing, confusing slickness of her own desire.
Oh, the folly! It had never occurred to Helen to stop, to push him away. Only now did she truly understand the risks she had run, not to mention the sheer torture she had put Cam through by responding so shamelessly. Yes, Helene now realized that she had urged him on by permitting her willful, eager hands to slide instinctively down from his shoulders, to skim his narrow waist, and go beyond, as she searched for—ached for—something she had not truly understood, but had so desperately wanted from him ...
“Miss de Severs?”
Thomas Lowe’s anxious voice came at her as if from a distance. “Miss de Severs? I say, are you perfectly all right?” Suddenly, Helene realized she had been staring blindly through the arched doorway and into Chalcote’s orchard. Smoothly, she spun back to face the rector, feeling the heat of embarrassment flood her face.
“Oh, heavens yes,” she murmured, waving her hand dismissively. “Perfectly all right. You must forgive me, Mr. Lowe, I was just remembering something ... important.”
Mr. Lowe stared at her dubiously, then pressed the back of his cool fingertips against her heated cheek. “But my dear, you feel absolutely feverish! I daresay you’ve overexerted yourself with all this tramping about in the countryside. My curate is at work in the vestry. May I send him for my carriage?”
“Oh no! Indeed, I pray you will not,” Helene insisted, stepping quickly down onto the path just outside the wall. “Really, I am perfectly well. Merely woolgathering. You see, I have so much on my mind just now ...”
“Oh, to be sure,” responded Mr. Lowe smoothly, seeming to accept her veiled excuses. “Your burdens are many, I am certain, what with our dear Ariane’s ... affliction.”
Helene flicked her gaze up at the rector. “Yes, she’s very much on my mind, I confess,” she said reluctantly. “I am determined to help Ariane, however, and I believe that I can.”
Mr. Lowe looked at her sharply, his perfect blond brows going up in apparent surprise. “Do you indeed? You believe, I take it, that the child can be taught to speak? What a blessing, to be sure!”
Reluctantly, Helene shook her head. “It is far too soon to know, but I shall certainly be of no help if I selfishly linger here.” Abruptly, she forced a smile and extended her hand upward. “Sir, I thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
From his position on the step above, Thomas Lowe bent down to shake her hand, then oddly, he pressed his left hand on top of hers in an exceedingly warm gesture. “Miss de Severs,” he said, a bit unsteadily, “might I call on you at Chalcote tomorrow to ... to inquire after your health?”
Helene pushed up the brim of her hat to better look up at him on the step above. His warm hands, his ardent eyes, and the odd intensity of his expression all conspired to disconcert her, and suddenly, she was not at all sure of what he was asking. “Sir, I cannot think—you see, Lord Treyhern and I have not discussed—that is to say, I have only just arrived.”
The rector was insistent. “Lord Treyhern is a good friend. He shan’t object. And as Chalcote’s rector, I should feel I had shamelessly neglected my parishioners if I failed to confirm that you are truly recovered from your exertions.”
Too absorbed in her own confusing emotions to argue any further, Helene murmured her acquiescence, then left the rector standing in the open arch as she made her way between the apple trees. All thought of the handsome young rector quickly faded from her mind as she walked back up the hill to Chalcote Court.
Helene’s visit to the church had done more than awaken old dreams. It had made her increasingly anxious for Ariane Rutledge. She very much hoped to see the child again this afternoon, even if only for a few moments. If Helene truly meant to stay at Chalcote, Ariane deserved the whole of her attention. And Helene was eager to give it. Impatiently, she stepped up her pace.
5
If a Man will begin with Certainties, he Shall end in Doubts
Well! So much for being certain, swift and uncompromising in his decisions, thought Cam. He stood before the window of his private sitting room watching as Helene made her way up the hill toward the kitchen garden. His new governess was looking decidedly at home in the country, dressed in her brown velvet pelisse with its pert, matching bonnet, and wading through the tall autumn grass which fringed Chalcote’s lawns.
Cam looked down at the cat who was soaking up the last rays of sun in the wide window sill. “What is it about that woman, Boadicea,” he mused, “that can make a man open his mouth with every good intention of saying one thing, only to hear the precise opposite come tumbling out?”
Wisely, Boadicea merely yawned, then rolled artfully around to have her belly scratched. Cam, however, was not quite finished. “Did I not go resolutely upstairs this morning to tell her to leave? And she meant to go, too,” he murmured softly. “But I suppose I must set aside my preferences if she can help Ariane.”
Almost tentatively, Cam lifted his hands to press his fingertips against the thick pane of glass. It felt bitterly cold to the touch, like the rest of his house.
He had known, of course, the prec
ise moment Helene had left Chalcote. Oh, it was true that he felt almost linked to her by some metaphysical bond. But this particular knowledge of her departure was discerned by no unnatural gift of prescience. He had been staring out the window as she left, as if he were some sort of abandoned lapdog.
In truth, it had begun to seem to Cam as if he had spent entirely too much of his existence watching life through a pane of glass; coolly observing, but never touching. And for the first time in his life he felt a mild resentment that his life should be so.
After his early-morning meeting with Helene, for example, instead of riding out to visit one of his tenant farms as he would normally have done, he’d lingered about the house all morning, and taken a long, leisurely luncheon with Ariane. But all the while, he’d been listening for the swishing of Helene’s skirts or the quick tap-tap of her slippers. It made no sense at all. Despite his frustrations, however, he was still waiting near the window when Helene returned.
And so he saw at once what his troublesome younger brother was about. Bentley intercepted Helene near the kitchen garden, stepping into her path and sweeping a low, pretentious bow over her hand, as if she were the damned Duchess of Kent instead of the governess. Had the impudent devil not set out with his bird dog and best gun in tow, Cam would have sworn that the boy had planned the assignation. Perhaps Bentley had been watching Helene from the windows too? The mere thought drove him to distraction, yet Cam could hardly blame the boy. Helene did make a winsome sight, her cheeks flushed with exertion, the wind playing with her hair.
Blister it, the whelp still had hold of her hand! Was he proposing marriage? Telling her fortune? Or just pleading for the name of her glover? Cam snorted in disgust. More likely, Bentley was just trying to get a good glimpse down her bodice. Cam felt his groin tighten uncomfortably just as the dressing room door opened to admit Crane. In fact, he must have groaned aloud, for suddenly, the old man was at his elbow.
“My lord?” said the portly valet in a solicitous tone.
Cam let his fist smack hard against the window frame, startling the cat. “Nothing, Crane. Just ... clearing my throat.”
“Oh,” said the elderly man vaguely. “I feared you were suffering some sort of discomfort.” Crane set down his boot brush on a nearby table and leaned forward to stare out the window too, as if curious about what had captivated his master’s attention.
“Ah—!” he sighed appreciatively. “Lovely, is she not?” He paused for a long moment. “I say, young Bentham appears quite smitten.”
“Well, Bentley is often smitten,” snapped Cam, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But he’d best watch that one. She may tell him to go to the devil.”
Crane merely chuckled. “Oh, and the lad may do just that! But none too soon, I fancy. He may be, as they say, hell-bent. But he’s too much like his sire to go with any alacrity. Yes, Mr. Bentley will lead Old Harry a merry chase.”
“Aren’t we the philosopher today,” grumbled Cam, eyeing both Bentley and his bird dog suspiciously.
“Umm,” replied the old valet noncommittally, still staring out the window.
Out in the dirt of the kitchen garden, Old Harry’s worthy quarry was on bended knee now, doing his level best to get the energetic setter to offer up his paw to Helene. The dog, who was the only player in the farce unaffected by Helene’s charms, ignored them both and darted anxiously away to christen a row of what looked like withering carrots. That business finished, the setter then proceeded to scurry about, whuffing at the dirt with his nose. Then he hunkered down to do something far worse.
Bentley, otherwise absorbed, did not notice. Cam jerked his head toward the glass. “Crane,” he asked darkly, “does Mrs. Naffles have all the root crops in?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” murmured the old man, lifting a gnarled finger to point toward Helene, who was struggling valiantly to help Bentley up from the ground. The young man clutched at his knee in a theatrical gesture of agony. Helene threw back her head and laughed, then hefted him to his feet.
“What do you think, my lord? The dark purple? Or the brownish-gold shades?”
Cam turned to stare down at the man as if he’d sprouted wings. “What the devil are you rambling about, Crane?”
Crane continued to gaze placidly through the glass. “Miss de Severs’s gown, my lord. Do you prefer the amethyst? Or that odd shade of dark gold? For my part, I think the amethyst really sets her fine eyes to advantage, but on the other hand, with that mass of black hair—”
“Good God, man!” exploded Cam. “Surely there’s room in the garden for another captivated suitor. Go, Crane! Have at it, if you fancy you’ve a chance.”
“Oh, heavens no, my lord,” answered the elderly man with a rueful shake of his head. “Not my type at all! No, I suspect there are very few men who could long hold the attention of such a woman. Very few indeed.” Slowly, Crane picked up the boot brush and returned to his task. Cam returned his attentions to Bentley and Helene.
After a few minutes had passed, Crane spoke again. “Knew her mother, I did,” he murmured from across the room. “What a fine looking woman she was!”
“What—?” snapped Cam, turning away from the window again. The cat darted away.
“I ... remember ... her ... mother,” repeated the valet slowly, as if it were Cam and not himself who had grown hard of hearing. “Back when I was valet to your father. And I remember the girl, too, my lord. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Cam softly, his arms folded across his chest now. “Yes, I remember her.”
Crane set the brush down again. “Such a pretty, sweet-natured thing, even when she was young. And a proper favorite with the staff, you know. Never haughty, nor above herself in any way.”
Cam wanted to remark that it would have taken but a short climb in order for the Middletons to have gotten above themselves, but the mean-spirited words stuck in his mouth.
And then, the full import of what the valet was saying struck him like a brickbat. First Naffles. Now Crane! Burn it, who else knew about his relationship with Helene? And just what did they know? Had he been as transparent in his attentions toward her as Bentley? Lord, probably worse.
“I always wondered,” said the old man slowly, “if it wouldn’t have been better for your father had he simply married Mrs. Middleton,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Cam walked to the side table near the window and yanked the stopper from a decanter of cognac. “Marie Middleton was a vulgar tart who ignored her own child,” he said simply as he sloshed the amber liquid into a waiting glass.
The elder man looked suddenly pained. “Oh, such harsh words, my lord! The lady possessed a good heart, but she was little more than a child herself.”
“A child, do you say—?” Cam gave a bark of laughter, then tossed off half the glass as he walked back to the window. “I fancy not.” He planted his booted foot solidly in the middle of the deep window sill.
Suddenly, Crane was back by his side. “Take my word on this, my lord, for I’m an old man who’s seen much. A great many women are destined to be naught but children until the day they die. All they can hope for is to find a man—any man—to care for them. But there are others,” he said in a softer tone, gazing out the window again, “who are born ... not precisely old, but possessed of a wisdom far beyond their years. They know just who they are, and exactly what they want, from a very young age.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Crane,” he answered abruptly, turning to let his foot slip away from the window sill.
“Do you not, my lord?” said the old man sadly. “A pity, then.”
Without further response, Cam strode to the bell pull and yanked it hard. “Milford,” he said when the butler finally answered, “please send word to Miss de Severs. I should like to see her in my study after dinner, if it is not inconvenient.”
“Very good, my lord,” intoned Milford in his gloomiest voice, then he lingered in the doorway for a long moment. “What shall I do if it is
...?”
Cam’s head swiveled back toward the open door. “If it is what?” he asked irascibly.
“Inconvenient.”
Cam felt another rush of irritation. “It damned well won’t be,” he snapped. Milford’s long, gangling figure darted away.
Cam set his brandy down with a sharp clatter, then focused hard on the glass. Good God, what was happening to him? He never drank spirits before dinner, yet there sat his glass, very nearly drained. And he never spoke sharply to his servants, and yet in the space of a quarter-hour, he’d insulted both his valet and his butler. With a jerk, he turned, crossed the room toward the door.
“Crane?” he said over his shoulder, one hand clenching the cold, brass doorknob.
“Yes, my lord?” Blinking, the old man looked up from his work.
Cam dropped his gaze to the polished oak floor. “My sarcasm was inappropriate. I find I am not myself today. I’m very sorry.”
“I know, my lord.” Crane nodded gently. “I know.”
His mood still raw, Cam strode down the long corridor which led from his suite of rooms and past the entrance to his daughter’s wing. Abruptly, he halted, paused but a moment, then turned sharply left toward the schoolroom. Two doors beyond, he knocked perfunctorily, then entered. Martha leapt from her chair, her needlework tumbling to the floor.
Ariane stood on tiptoes at the high mullioned window, leaning intently into the well, and staring out across the back lawns of Chalcote. But Cam knew she did not stare in the direction of Helene and Bentley, as he had done. Instead, Ariane looked well beyond, toward the old footpath that ran from the village of Cheston, through Chalcote, and on to Coln St. Andrews. It was the path she had so often taken with her mother.
Inwardly, Cam wondered yet again. Was that simply it? Was his daughter still grieving over—or confused by—the death of her mother? After all this time, Cam still did not know. And plead and coax and scold as he might, Ariane could be persuaded to say nothing.